


Cherry Stems

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Bens A Late Bloomer, Brief Mentions of Religion-Based Homophobia, Dirty Talk, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Over the Clothes, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Weirdly Long Scenes of Debating Shaving, handjobs, virgin!ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Alternatively Titled: "In Which George Is Infinitely Patient"Ben's had six dates with the handsome, wealthy man he met a few months ago. That's twice the three-date rule, and yet the only thing keeping him from asking him up for a post-date coffee is the fact that, when he does, Ben's going to have to admit that he's twenty-six and a virgin.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Virgin Ben!

_ Do you want to come up for a drink? _

It’s a simple question, packed absolutely full of raw innuendo, but Ben can’t seem to spit it out. He shifts his legs against the buttery leather of the passenger seat and licks his lips as he flickers his eyes to George one more time. He’s been staring at him on and off since George offered to drive him home from the bar they had been at, pretty acutely aware that it’s now the end of their third date.

“Do you…” he manages before his mouth goes totally dry and that thrashing, desperate panicky feeling in his gut flares up and he clears his throat twice before looking back down at his fingers. He twines and twists them together, and then looks at George again and then out the window. 

“Do I what?” George sounds amused, which Ben is pretty sure is a good thing. Compared to the obvious worse options - options where George sounds angry or annoyed. 

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Ben doesn’t even need to look at George to know he’s cracking just an edge of a smile at the way Ben’s voice strains around the question. “Why, Mr. Tallmadge,” he starts, just enough edge of a humor to the deadpan of his voice, “are you asking me out on a date?”

The look Ben gives him is properly withering, but it can’t last. George looks too nice to be mad at for more than a second. He’s still wearing the neat-pressed suit he must have wore to work that morning, but his tie’s looser than it was when they met at the bar, and his jacket’s hanging from the hook in the back of the car. He looks neat and pristine and Ben feels a little more than less in his sweater and jeans. But George doesn’t mind, or at least he says he doesn’t mind.

“I’m asking you out on another date,” he says, a little quieter than needed. George seals his  _ yes  _ with a chaste, quick kiss. 

“I’ll text you,” George says after a moment and Ben slips out of the car. 

He doesn’t hear the engine until he’s through the door to his building and as soon as it fades into the background he rubs his palm across his face with a quick, desperate,  _ “Fuck.” _

Fuck. He wanted to ask him up this time, he really, really prepared to ask him up this time. He changed his sheets, he made his bed, he cleaned his kitchen and his bathroom, and piled all the papers in his living room into one cohesive pile. Hell, he even walked down to Walgreens and re-stocked his supply of lube and picked up condoms. 

He was so ready he just… wasn’t ready.

Ben bangs the door shut behind himself with a kick, and sulks his way all the way down to the bathroom. He might as well shower the self-pity off. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t like George, or that he doesn’t think George is absolutely goddamn drop-dead gorgeous. Because he does, and he is and from what Ben can tell, George seems pretty damn into him too - but Ben can’t get the question out because he knows, with the question comes the confession.

He managed to cram it into one big same-breath speech, practiced in front of mirrors and mouthed to himself as he laid there, staring at the ceiling: He had big, hyper-religious family in a tiny town where everyone always seems like they know everyone else’s secrets. Which means he spent his entire adolescence trying desperately to keep his own hidden. Then there was college, too much studying, too much holing himself up and trying to see if maybe he pretended he wasn’t gay long enough it’d actually be true. If he hid himself in his studies long enough, maybe he’d stop wanting to bang his best friend. It didn’t work and the only real, solid effect it had was zapping every chance Ben had to work out some of the dirtier kinks of a potential relationship.

Like sex. And having it. It's a mortifying gap in his experiences, the sort of knowledge he feels like everyone else at this same stage in life has. It isn't like he hasn't  _ tried,  _ but he’d lost his nerve once at twenty (a hand down his pants, a horrifying fear that his father is going to burst in at any moment despite being hundreds of miles away) and, in a way, he's pretty sure it never actually managed to regain it. 

The harsh light of the bathroom is too much, making Ben look way older than he is. Twenty-six isn’t that bad, not too old, he doesn’t think. But it’s entirely plausible that George see’s it completely differently, he could see it like Benedict did - pushing Ben off him once he confesses his inexperience and saying, “ _ Sorry _ ,  _ I don’t do virgins.”  _

He chews his lip and examines the lines that are starting to remain around his eyes for a little bit longer before he tears himself away to shower. He spends the whole time desperately trying to break himself out of the habid comparing George and Benedict, he tries to focus on getting over that twisting, gross fear. 

By the time he crawls into bed, slightly-damp still, eyes a little red around the rim - there’s one unread text from nearly an hour previous.

“Goodnight, Ben.” It reads, and that flutter that Ben gets whenever he gets anything from George returns full-forced. 

He types back, “Night, George,” complete with a smiley-face, and plugs his phone it to charge before he falls asleep.

Their fourth date comes a few days later and this time Ben is going to do it. He pepped himself up with a talk in the mirror beforehand - he wore new boxer-briefs, he spent almost two hours agonizing in front of his mirror about which way to part his hair. Chewing his lip, in the end he decides to just go with what he knows, what he’s always done.

As opposed to Ben’s suggestion, instead of coffee they decide on a little Italian place just far enough from downtown that it isn’t packed. Ben meets him there a few minutes before he said he would, pink-cheeked from speed walking once he realized how close he would be cutting it. He’s in the same sort of outfit as he was on their last three dates and he’s just now starting to realize just how unflattering it must look. Slacks and a sweater pulled over a button up because it gets freezing in the office. At least when George is wearing the same thing he’s wearing suits tailored to his body, and ties that make his skin glow and his eyes pop. 

He’s neat and pristine, as always, sitting at the table that Ben hurries to. 

“Sorry,” he starts with, just a hair breathless.

“Why, you’re not late.” George gives him that same little smile, it’s faint and fleeting - just a small curl in the corner of his lips but it makes Ben’s stomach twist up into hot little knots. He feels himself go pinker and his eyes flicker down to the table. George lets the amusement seep into his voice, “I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered us a bottle of wine.”

Wine, Ben can appreciate. It comes soon enough, with George asking about Ben’s day - prodding gently with questions even as Ben realizes just how incredibly boring his entire story about James spilling Heather’s jar of candies is. The wine is nice, George instructs the waiter to leave the bottle and Ben doesn’t even want to begin to think how much this place costs. As good as he is with numbers, though, he can probably make a valid assume that it’s quite a bit.

“What can I get started for you two gentlemen?” The waiter asks, service-grin twisted in place, once Ben finds a break in fumbling for the ending of this story. 

“Oh, uh-” Shit. He hadn’t even looked at the menu yet, he stumbles for a few seconds as George places his own order - eyes flickering down the options that he’s only half-sure what they are. He worries the inside of his cheek, before George speaks up.

“He’ll have the braised lamb shank.” The waiter vanishes before Ben can open his mouth and George just shrugs one shoulder. “You’ll love it.”

Normally, Ben would complain, puff his chest out and say he can order for himself but - he trusts George, he trusts the wine he selects, he trusts the food, he just trusts him. “Thanks,” he says.

“You seem flustered, Benjamin.” 

Full name, Ben resists the urge to look down and fidget like he's done something wrong. He wants to say it all at once, blurt it out here in the middle of dinner and let George go through the entire night knowing he's wasting his money on a guy he won't ever see again. Or maybe, he thinks hurriedly and in a sort of blind panic, maybe George will just leave. Leave Ben with a check he can't possibly afford and no hopes for a sixth date. 

He settles, though, for a simple, “I guess I've just had a lot on my mind.”

George takes a thoughtful sip of his wine, eyes flickering towards the table for a moment - a hint of distant disappointment that makes Ben’s heart crack. “Anything I can help with?”

Yes, he wants to scream, get it over with, shove me into the wall and kiss me, ask me up to  _ your  _ apartment, push me onto your bed just - get it over with. But he swallows it down and shakes his head, “My boss was just being an ass today, to everyone, which isn’t new it’s just a little draining, I think.”

It’s not a lie, at least not mostly. Though, Scott does seem to get on Ben’s back more than he does anyone elses - much to Ben’s absolute chagrin. Either his reports aren’t done on time, or they’re in too soon (and, though flawless, Scott still sends them back and tells him to do them again, only for Ben to get the exact same numbers and shoves them right back), or they’re just not done in the way  _ Charles Scott  _ likes them to be done. So what if Ben’s way is more indicative of cost balances?  He echoes this frustration to George who in turn, slowly, visibly, relaxes just a fraction more.

“You could have told me you weren’t feeling up to dinner, Ben,” he reminds him and Ben feels his stomach twist again, only a wholly different and far more uncomfortable fashion. “We can get these boxed up once they come, get you home to unwind a little.”

“George, I want to have dinner with you,” he promises, a tentative hand reaching across the table to brush George’s. It’s dark enough in the restaurant, and they’re sequestered back enough that Ben feels covered enough to be daring. Normally, both of them tend to eek away from public displays - never more than fleeting kisses in front of Ben’s building, never more than brushing hands that don’t quite linger. Here, though, George still looks a little taken aback by the audacity and boldness, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

He shifts across the table from Ben, and after a moment of vague confusion, a foot gently bumps up against Ben’s own. His heart stutters and jumps up into his throat and George twists his wrist so his fingers can curl against Ben’s for a squeeze. “As long as you’re sure.”

George successfully navigates their conversations back to lighter waters, much to Ben’s very obvious relief. He doesn’t take his foot back, not when Ben scoots closer to the table, giving what he hopes is a fairly seductive look and nudges George back. For a moment, Ben feels a decade younger - though as a much more suave and sure version of his real sixteen year old self. 

Their little game of footsie lasts through until dessert, where George slips Ben the menu, letting him contemplate it before deciding on the apple crostata to split between the two of them. Ben chases it with the last of his wine, tipping him just onto the right side of buzzed as George doesn’t even let Ben get a chance at nabbing the check. He chews his bottom lip as they wait outside, George in the process of calling Ben a cab. He wants to push himself into his grip, pull himself up on his toes and press his lips to the space under George’s ear and whisper,  _ but your place is so much closer.  _

But he doesn’t. 

George’s kiss goodbye feels twice as desperate, twice as hungry with a fervor that grows into the next time their schedules align for a fast lunch, or a morning coffee or a new play. Each time Ben swears,  _ swears,  _ he’s going to do it - or at least swears that if George asks, he’ll say yes. But he never does it and George never asks and Ben has spent far, far too many nights jacking off in his bed thinking about what it would be like to have George’s hands on him instead. 

Their texts are hardly even risque. Ben’s had more embarrassingly sexual conversations with Nate than he has George. George sends him good mornings, good nights, asks him how his day’s been going and if he’s free to see some of those old westerns they’re showing back-to-back at a theater just a few blocks up from Ben’s place tomorrow. It’ll go late, he tells him, if he’s interested.

He responds, agrees and vows to tell George that he can always stay at his place in person.

Then, once he’s set a few alarms so he isn’t late, he spends nearly half an hour wielding a disposable razor contemplating shaving. He trims, usually, which Ben has to admit he prefers - but he has no actual idea what  _ George  _ likes. Sure, the realistic part of him knows it shouldn’t matter, that he should do what he likes and not worry about someone else at all, if George doesn’t like it, fuck him.

Except, Ben’s trying to fuck him. Well, have George fuck him. 

Though, it’s not like he can imagine George caring all that much but, a burst of self-conscious worry tells him he doesn’t actually know what anyone but himself likes. His chest hair had always been annoyingly sparse, as light and fair as everything above it, so Ben had long resigned himself to just doing away with what little there was. He puts the razor down and focuses on what he knows he should do. He washes his hair, scrubs himself down and cleans himself as thoroughly as imaginable, wishing he could far more time to consider. 

The first alarm chimes from his bathroom counter and Ben curses under his breath and figures well, maybe if no one looks too close at anything. 

He’d picked out his outfit the night before, set out his nicest pair of boxer-briefs and that shirt that makes his eyes pop, and meets George at the theater right on time. Ben doesn’t remember much of the movies - George had picked some seats in the back of the very sparsely-filled theater, curled his arm around Ben’s shoulders and spent the whole time stroking down his arm and stealing sweet, languid kisses. Ben’s toes curled in his shoes and he catches himself pressing closer to George until they’re practically sharing a seat, his head tucked under his chin and George’s fingers toying idly with the hem of Ben’s shirt.

They wait while the credits roll, as people depart around them, and George drags the pads of his fingers just faintly along the skin of Ben’s hip before he unfolds himself from their knot and stands. “May I walk you home?” He asks, and Ben takes a moment to regain his composure and untie his tongue before he responds with an affirmative  _ of course _ . 

It’s colder outside than it had been when they arrived and Ben tries to fight the shivers through his thin (but best) button-down and only sorta press himself into George’s side as they walk in a comfortable sort of silence. They’re almost halfway there when George gives him a bit of a look. “You’re cold,” he says, not a question but a statement and one that Ben can’t actually refute, and before he can argue, George slips his jacket off and drapes it over Ben’s shoulders. It doesn’t swallow Ben fully, but it does hang off him as he slips his arms through the holes and wraps them around his chest.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, quietly, and shoots George a smile - which gets returned in kind. Ben’s door comes up faster than he would have liked it to, and all those old fears and old anxieties claw themselves up to the forefront of his mind and his breath comes a little more shaky. He climbs the two steps on the stoop of the building, putting him fairly evenly level with George and fiddles with his keys. 

He breaths in once. “It’s uh, it’s pretty late.” He stops and clears his throat. “You can, if you want to, because I know it’s… late and you live a bit away and you can, uh.”

George’s lips cut off the question at it’s fumbling, flailing root and this one is… different. He’s kissed George plenty of times by now - there was hesitant early kisses, chaste goodnights, lingering goodnights, greeting kisses, and post-coffee kisses. Long short, filthy, neat - every kind of kiss Ben could imagine having with George. But this time it’s different, it’s less of just another farewell kiss and more of a promise, a prelude. George’s tongue slips past Ben’s yielding lips, tasting him so thoroughly. 

There’s no helping himself as Ben’s knees go weak and he absolutely groans into the kiss. His hands fly to George’s shoulders, pulling him closer as George tangles his fingers into Ben’s hair - refusing to let go.

But, inevitably, they must part. Ben’s heart is beating so fast he think it might have stopped and George looks - God, George’s lips are just a touch redder, his cheeks dusted a faintest bit pink and his eyes, fuck, his  _ eyes.  _ Ben’s never quite understood what the phrase  _ dark with lust  _ was supposed to mean so thoroughly as he does now. 

When he speaks again, it’s with the faintest hint of a growl, “I’d love to come up.”

Ben isn’t sure if he says anything next - but he pulls George to him and kisses him with all the relief and adrenaline that is pouring through his veins. He doesn’t know who unlocks the door, he doesn’t know who nudges who up the stairs - but he’s hyper-aware of the hand on his hip, of the hand on his ass, of the mouth on his neck when he finally gives and turns to open the door to his actual apartment. George’s hands shift to grip at his hands, pulling Ben back just enough to fit him to his front and -- oh.  _ Oh.  _ George is hard against his ass and Ben tentatively pushes back, his hand still on his doorknob. 

George growls, properly growls, against him and Ben’s heart skips a beat at the sound. His hands are shaking, well beyond trembling by now, as he fumbles to get the door open and lead George into it. He’s back on him as soon as they’re inside, lips crushing together desperately, George’s arm wrapped tight around his waist.

He should probably say something, he thinks, as George slips his hand to cup Ben’s ass and uses Ben’s back to firmly click the door shut. But that would involve stopping kissing him and stopping touching him and Ben really, really doesn’t want to do that. In fact, he wants to do the opposite of stop. 

The hand on his ass, slips down to the back of Ben’s knee - giving a soft little pull and it takes Ben a second to get the direction. But once he does, he goes at it with vigor, swinging his leg up over George’s hip and bringing them closer and - yeah, yeah that’s definitely what he wanted to do.

George grinds against him, pinning Ben to the door and giving Ben just a few seconds of raw, mindless bliss. Lips sink down to his throat, tracing a hot line to the edge of his shirt then back up again. It's a lot, it’s really a lot, actually. In fact, it’s  _ too much _ . That molten pleasure floods his stomach and Ben’s toes curl in his shoes and with every ounce of restraint and self-control he can muster up from himself, he lets one last gasp slip before he shoves - hard - at George’s shoulder. He falls back nearly immediately, letting Ben slump against the door as an edge of momentary confusion and worry colors his features. 

“It’s just... good,” Ben manages, struggling for words, as embarrassment curls its familiar length around his chest and squeezes tight, “Too good, wanna make sure we get to the good part.”

There’s a spark of realization, and instead of continuing to linger there, eyeing Ben like he’s about to startle like a deer, George returns to him, only slower this time. He sweeps his hands down Ben’s arms, along his sides, curling them around to the small of his back to pull him closer, until they’re flush together. “How about we take this to the bedroom, then?” He asks, voice sending shivers down Ben’s spine.

Somehow, Ben manages to find the sort of control in his body to nod, take George’s hand, and lead him back through his somewhat shabby apartment. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of his own mess, the papers spread out on the table, the books stacked half-read on his shelves, the hamper still filled with last week's laundry - and he swallows suddenly, worried. But George doesn’t tear his eyes off Ben. He’s only looking at him, following the line of his throat as he turns his head to avoid his gaze, the twist of his lip as he chews nervously on it again. George doesn’t turn his head, drink in Ben’s apartment. 

He only watches him. 

And, for a moment, Ben feels seen, really, deeply, seen. 

And, for a moment, he thinks he should probably tell him soon. 

They’re not kissing, they’re hardly touching, but when the words fumble themselves up his throat he can’t find the best way to spit them out. They come up out of order and from different fragments of different thoughts on different ways to present the information at hand. Technically, he knows he doesn’t  _ have  _ to tell George. Practically, he knows he  _ really  _ should. 

But, George looks at him like Ben’s pretty sure he’s never been looked at before. Roving eyes full of anticipation and laced heavily with a dizzying sort of want - taking him in like he can never get enough, like at any moment he’d wake up and the dream would be shattered. Which is absurd, because obviously, this is Ben’s dream. It’s Ben’s dream, as George slips his fingertips along the edge of his shirt. It’s Ben’s dream, as George crowds him against the edge of Ben’s half-decade old mattress. 

It’s Ben’s dream, as George leans down to kiss him again - sweeter, this time, less hurried and hungry - right when he slides one warm, rough hand up under the fabric of Ben’s shirt. Just the simplest, faintest, touch sends bolts of hot static down his skin, electrocuting and soothing all at once. Ben fights tooth and nail to not shiver bodily at the sensation of a palm scraping across his side. At a hand tugging at the topmost button of his shirt until it flicks open. 

_ Tell him,  _ that tiny fraction of himself that still resorts to logic and thinking provides. The rest of Ben ignores it, setting his own trembling hands to work at the bottom button of George’s shirt. It takes considerably longer, as George alternates between unbuttoning and stroking and kissing and touching and  _ Jesus  _  there can’t any part of him that’s gone thoroughly untouched, stroked, or fondled by now. He’s sure of it, and George  _ makes  _ sure of it. 

_ Tell him,  _ that voice shouts, louder, as Ben’s shirt hangs open and George’s jacket falls away.  _ Tell him,  _ it says, again, as George’s hands over Ben’s where they just won't stop shaking. 

“We have all night,” George reminds him, thumbs stroking over knuckles. Ben takes one, two, three, maybe ten breaths before he manages to calm the jittering under his skin enough to look up. 

He echoes, “All night.” 

He pulls him in for another kiss, and then another - slowly turning Ben into a gel as he eases the shirt off his shoulders. His heart skips for a moment, but under the easing blanket of darkness it doesn’t stumble and stutter the way he’d been afraid it would. The morning jogs and weekend gym hour-or-so doesn’t quite fend off that softness that sticks to him, around his face and his middle - not when he finds himself behind a desk all day and bringing home dinner in greasy paper bags. Honestly, he really, really hopes George isn't going to reach for a light switch. It takes a few moments before Ben realizes, with a stunningly belated sort of clarity, that George is halfway through his own shirt too - only running one hand along the length of Ben’s back while the other is busy exposing inch-by-inch that broad, strong chest Ben’s been dying to press his hands to for weeks now. 

Now, now he wishes there was a light. With the fabric gone and the undershirt tugged up over his head and George’s chest bare right in front of him, Ben really wishes he had some better lighting. But he accepts what he has right now, which is the ability to  _ touch.  _ He’s just as solid, as firm and warm as Ben had dreamed, as he had hoped and assumed, yielding to an age-ripened softness around his stomach that makes Ben want to never, ever leave this moment.

He tears himself away after just a few indulgent beats and sits himself down on his bed - scooting towards the middle and beaconing George to follow. Which he, and those dark, hungry eyes, does. He crawls over Ben once he’s laid out on his back. He props himself up on his elbow, hovering and sliding his other hand along his chest, then leaning in to press a few short, chaste kisses to his collar, then down his chest. He’s not entirely sure what George is after, at least not until that burst of toe-curling pleasure sparks right down his nerves at the first drag of his tongue over his nipple. 

He arches into it, gasping into the pillows as George's hand slips into place to toy with the other side. 

“Fuck, George - George,” he whines, hips bucking helplessly when lips turns to a drag of  _ teeth  _ instead. “I need you, I need you to-” He cuts himself off, the possibilities of how to end that lining themselves up in his throat.  _ Fuck me, keep going, stop,  _ all sit there, waiting patiently to be chosen. 

George stops without being told, stroking along Ben’s ribs instead, just firmly enough to not tickle, and plants another sweet kiss to his breastbone. “Tell me what you need me to do, babe.” The hand on his side drifts down, down to Ben’s belt. He closes his eyes, nerves rattling and stomach tying itself up once again.

“George, I’ve - uh. I want…” He wants to say it but George won't keep still long enough for him to focus. Lips dragging down, teeth tugging at his nipple, fingers undoing his belt - Ben doesn't know where to put his attention first, what feels best versus what he knows he should do. 

He nips at Ben, right under his pectoral muscle, and soothes it over with a flick of his tongue before asking, “What do you want?” 

The only articulate response Ben has is a whine. George tsks, giving the buckle of Ben's belt a tug but not unfastening it. “Use your words, Benjamin, you need to tell me what you want. Do you want me to kiss you?” He punctuates the question with a press of his lips an inch lower than before. “Blow you?” Another. “Fuck you?” This time, he bites - Ben's fairly certain it won't leave a mark but he arches up into it anyway, gasping all the while. He feels the lips against him curling into a wicked grin and once Ben realizes that his eyes are squeezes shut - he prys them open. 

George looks gorgeous. Perfectly fit between Ben's legs with his hair tousled and his eyes flashing with the sort of hunger you see in nature documentaries about predators in the Serengeti. It's too dark to make out the tiny details of his features, but the half-filtered moonlight catches the wet shine of his lips and Ben can imagine how flushed and full they must be. 

“George, I've,” his voice is painfully quiet as his eyes slip away - to the wrinkles of his bedspread and the suddenly cold shadows, “I've never - well - done this before.” 

He says it. And it hangs there. He doesn't look at George - he  _ can't  _ look at George. He can't look at the thin-pressed lips or the stoney eyes - he can't watch him pull his hands off and listen to him explain that he's sorry, but this won't work out. 

Or worse. 

He can't meet the other option, that look of stoic duty, that look of suppressed disappointment but ultimately resignation to accept that  _ fine _ , if this is how it is. 

One of the hands that had pulled back when Ben spoke returns, much softer, much more gentle. “What,” George starts, with just that same level of even humor that colors what Ben's pretty sure might be jokes, “You've never brought someone home after the seventh date?” 

Ben isn't entirely sure what his heart is doing, but he's also fairly certain it isn't what it should be doing. “George I mean--”

“I know what you mean, Ben.” The second hand comes back to, resting lightly on his hip and stroking the skin above his jeans with his thumbs. “You never answered me, and now, admittedly, I'd like you consider it more thoroughly. What do you want me to do?” 

It's like lurching to a stop after pressing the gas to the floor, the sudden slowness making Ben far more itchy and restless and just  _ that _ , the way George says it, is enough to make him recoil. He pulls his legs back, dislodging the hands, and starts to look around from his shirt, “You don't have to do this, I mean, fuck I know it's weird and I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - I mean I meant to to tell you, but I meant to tell you earlier and not when we’re both half naked and just -” he stops his rant to suck in a breath and press the heels of his hands against his eyes. 

Fuck. Just, fuck. 

“Benjamin.” The bed squeaks, shifting weight as George moves closer. His fingers wrap around Ben's narrow wrist, pulling one hand down so he can take his chin and nudge his head higher. But he can't force him to make eye contact as his other hand drops down to his lap too. “I shouldn't have been so callous, I apologize. Diffusing tension is a talent I have yet to truly acquire.” 

Okay maybe he can make Ben look up at him, summoning all the dredges of willpower left, Ben peeks up and there's nothing but a sweet sincerity laying over George's features. He parts his lips to speak, to apologize for making George feel like he needs to apologize, for overreacting, for not letting Nathan plow him eight and a half years ago just to get it the fuck over with. but there's too many things, too many variables, and not nearly enough time - so George takes the lead once again, admitting, “I am glad you told me, and I promise, Benjamin I don't think any differently about you. Not at all. In fact, I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't considered it a reason for your,” he trails off, thumb sweeping across Ben's lower lip for just a sweet, sweet moment as George presses his own lips together in that way that Ben's learned to pick out he's looking for just the right thing to say, “shyness,” he settles on and Ben tries to duck away. 

Not that George would dare to let him, of course. “Am I that obvious?” 

“No, but we've also been seeing each other for months, Benjamin, and with as much as you talk about your childhood and your family, it paints a certain picture.” 

Ben wiggles, suddenly a little under comfortable with the more bluntly honest route this conversation has taken, and tries to divert George's attention with his own hand coming up to cup the side of his neck and pull him into a short, bursting kiss - the kind that leaves him properly breathless and momentarily stunned. George's brows raise.

“We can stop talking about that if you wish.” 

“Please?” 

George indulges him with a second, a third, a fourth kiss all as he splays one hand in the center of his chest and pushes down just firmly enough for Ben to sink back into the nest of pillows. His heart is still throwing itself against his breastbone, hammering away ruthlessly inside his chest - and he's certain George can feel it in his pulse as his lips brush the underside of his jaw. In his fingertips, as they rub a soothing circle over his chest. 

The circle expands, inching downwards at a methodical pace as Ben tracks the hot, wet press of lips against his throat, all the way down to his collar. It isn't until he asks, half-breathless, into the hollow of his neck, “Is this alright?” that Ben realizes his hands has flicked the button of his jeans undone and was tugging softly at his zip. 

He nods and croaks, “Yeah?”

It's enough, though, for George to finish the job, sliding a strong hand down to the half-hard bulge in his boxer-briefs. It is much, much different when it is someone else's hand. Especially a hand that broad, that strong and firm, giving his cock just enough of a squeeze to make his veins flood with heat. He presses up, into George's hand, and gets another, then a long, languid rub as he hisses in a desperate breath. Shit this is nice, really nice. 

Really, really nice. 

The lips raise from his neck, close enough still that Ben can feel the hot puff of air, the intake of breath. There's a sort of tension there, a hovering sensation of something about to happen. And what does happen, between the steady stroking of Ben's cock through the fabric, is a low, rumbling voice washing over him, asking, “Do you have any idea the things I want to do to you?” 

Ben's answer can loosely be described as a whimper. 

His cock jumps under the touch, under the drag of a tongue up his throat, and Ben tries to hush his own sandpaper rough breathing to hear what George is saying. 

“Do you know how often I've dreamed of this? My hand around your cock, slowly driving you crazy. Do you know how hard you make me, Ben? How much I've wanted to just say to Hell with taking it slow, to Hell with waiting patiently and throw those beautiful legs up over my shoulders and eat that ass until you're drooling with pleasure and come all over your own chest.” He pauses, or maybe just the blood rushing in Ben's ears is drowning out the sound. He started rocking up into the hand, into the touch, too blissed to care that he's already chasing his end despite only barely getting started. 

George, for all its worth, only seems to encourage him. “I'd eat you  _ loose _ , Benjamin. Get you dripping, writhing on my tongue, on my fingers until you're stretched enough to take my cock,  _ fuck,  _ how I've thought about that. How tight you'd be, squeezing around me, so hot and smooth and beautiful.” Teeth graze just over his throbbing pulse and Ben is convinced that for a moment, it stops. “That perfect ass of yours, that gorgeous body, those beautiful, red lips - I would bet every last cent I have that fucking you would be the most Godly event of a man's life.” 

Maybe it's the words, or the harder press of George's hand on his cock but Ben stumbles in his twisting and pushing hips, he gasps in a wet, needy breath and crackles into moans as static overtakes every inch of his body. He comes with jerky uncoordinated thrusts of his hips, making an absolute mess of his underwear and George - with his filthy, filthy words and his talented hands - doesn't stop touching him. He doesn't stop stroking until he's milked every last drop from him. 

Somewhere in there, Ben's fairly certain all his limbs stop working. George's lips find the corner of his so sweetly once more before he pulls back and for a single, horrifying moment, Ben is certain he's going to leave. 

But he doesn't. 

He carefully strips Ben's jeans down off his legs, then peels away his boxer-briefs next. There's nothing left in Ben to let him be self conscious about it, not as George sweeps his palms along newly exposed flesh with the same sort of reverence that one gives cherished things. 

Ben, admittedly, doesn't quite see the connection, as he's far too suddenly distracted by George's hands going to his own pants. And - okay, wow. That stunning body cuts to a neat waist and down to strong legs and, once he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear, pushing it down until he can kick it off, a really, really nice dick. 

An also very intimidating dick. 

Though, judging by how wonderfully tall and broad George is, Ben would stick to “proportional” when Caleb roughs him up for details later. He worries his bottom lip. He's not totally inexperienced, but George is bigger than his fingers. Bigger than the shamefully and embarrassingly purchased toys hidden in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Ben's heart might actually leave. It might up and bounce out his throat and roll down the hall. 

Especially as George comes closer, crawls back over Ben, back onto the bed where the wet head of his cock can drag against against Ben and make his stomach knot up in a smooth cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. With a slight weight on his nerves only increasing as the post-orgasm buzz fades, his eyes flicker nervously to the box of condoms on his nightstand. George's hand cups his jaw, however, and drags him back. “Not tonight,” he purrs, “I won't be inside you tonight. There is plenty of time for that later.” 

“Oh, then what about you?” 

George shifts above him, dark eyes flickering up and down the length of his body as he adjusts his weight to one hand and wraps the other around himself. “With this sight? I think I can manage.” 

That's hardly fair. Ben wiggles a little, a determination filling himself. George's hand freezes once Ben's own slender fingers wrap around his thick shaft. He's heavy in his hand, especially once George moves his own hand away. Ben strokes slowly, the angle and feeling far weirder than jacking himself off. George covers his hand with his own after a few quiet minutes and, for a second, Ben thinks he's giving up on him. 

But he just silently gives his hand a little squeeze, prompting his fist tighter, and then goes back to touching his chest, his neck, his cheek. There's an idea, as his thumb traces Ben's lower lip, that gets all wound up in his head. With his free hand he catches George's wrist and drags fingers back to his mouth. 

He takes two at once, George's thick middle and ring fingers, twisting his tongue around them and sucking them past his lips. For the first time, George makes an actual, real sound. A groan vibrates up from his chest, something Ben can  _ feel _ more than  _ hear _ . Ben redoubles his efforts to get him to make that exact same sound again. 

And he does. With the right twist of his wrist, with the right suck on his fingers, with the right groan of George's name he has him shuddering and thrusting into Ben's fist - and, not long after, he's got the hot splash of come on his stomach and Ben's never felt hotter in his fucking life. Holy shit he feels alive, he feels some strange rush of power in his veins, a distant twitch of something under his skin as George crushes their lips together and let's their kiss be just sloppy and messy, wet slide of tired lips and the sticky slick drag of come between their bodies. 

“I,” George starts, panting between them once they find themselves capable of parting, “think that was well worth the wait.” 

Ben's response, as best as he can manage, is to wrap his hands around the back of George's neck, and pull him to another filthy kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS LOOK I STILL EXIST I PROMISE
> 
> I'm still here at [Tumblr](http://williamsburg-wench.tumblr.com/) sitting by my inbox with open arms


End file.
